One More Season
by hulklinging
Summary: Ernst had always known it was temporary. Every year they last is a surprise.
"Thirty years from now, tonight will seem unbelievably beautiful," is how it all started. Started with the promise of an ending, and even the romantic part of Ernst didn't bother to argue because he might have been naive but he was not so naive as to believe this thing between him and this gorgeous, forbidden boy could last.

"It's perfectly normal, you'll see." It's one of those summer nights where the air is perfectly still, and in their vineyard they feel seperated from the rest of the world, blanketed in their own secrets. Hanschen is waxing poetic against the trunk of a tree, and in that moment, he brings to mind a fairy king slowing the time of the world.

 _Let me be your Puck, just a little while more,_ Ernst prays, for a moment forgoing the Heavenly Father for a more Earthly god. _Let me sit here in your court just one more season._

Sometimes he thinks that Hanschen only returns to what has now become their bit of paradise out of instinct, retracing his steps there only because that is what he has done before. Ernst wonders if Hanschen would still come even if Ernst were not waiting for him, or following, stepping inside the larger boy's footsteps in half-playfulness, half superstition. Would he simply sit and breathe and hold court over the empy air? Although he wonders about it often, he never risks not showing. Perhaps all it will take for Hanschen to decide he is bored with their arrangement is a skipped day. Ernst is not brave enough to find an answer.

They continue, and in their clearing no tragedy touches them, not the empty seats at school or Ernst's failing grades. They study each other, Ernst knows every bone under Hanschen's skin, memorizes every line Hanschen sighs as Ernst learns how to move. Here, he is the best of students, and enough remains in the mornings to keep his head above water, so that he becomes accostomed to the pain of their teacher's rod but still has permission to stay. And if he can manage to stay in school, his family pays no mind to where else he spends his time.

He stumbles into the clearing late, one afternoon when the leaves are just beginning to recover from winter's cull. He ran all the way from the schoolhouse, kept late to correct Latin while his head rang with the threat of expulsion. Hanschen is nowhere to be seen, and he folds in on himself. Hands on his knees, he tries to breathe, pretends the reason his lungs are catching is the sprint and not the panic threatening to set in.

"Ernst?"

Hanschen steps out from behind the largest tree, his usual detached expression missing. He looks honestly concerned, as he approaches Ernst, and the boy hates that he is seeing him so pathetic, is sure Hanschen will comment on it, put him down for it. Instead, he rests a hand on Ernst's back, light like he's shy to touch him, which strikes Ernst as quite funny, because Hanschen has touched him in every way but this, and still this gentle rubbing of his shoulders feels like their most intimate moment. Slowly, he comes back to himself, and when he raises his head, Hanschen's eyes are soft, staring at Ernst's face with more emotion than he has ever seen the blonde wear before. It's enough to almost send his head back between his knees, but he smiles instead, and even gets a small smile back.

Once Hanschen sees he is alright, he pulls away, and that mask slips back into place, the one that makes him always appear a little far away. But Ernst knows his secret now, knows it's simply a mask he dons to hide the feelings he doesn't know how to handle. He keeps that information close to his heart, tucked away like a letter from a loved one. There are a few moments he holds there, things like their first kiss and that one time Hanschen stood up to their Latin teacher for his sake. Like a forest creature preparing to brave the winter, he hides away his favourite moments for the day Hanschen isn't just hiding behind a tree, out of sight, but out of reach as well.

Hanschen takes his hand, reaches into his bag with another. He has Ernst close his eyes, places something into his empty hand with that gentleness that only comes out when he pretends he's not watching. When he opens his eyes, it's to a slightly flattened cupcake, tucked into a napkin. Ernst turns to Hanschen with confusion, because although he sometimes brought Hanschen flowers he found along the way, or cookies for them to share, Hanschen has never brought him anything.

Hanschen looks away, and Ernst's eyes must be straining in this spring light, surely Hanschen's ears have not gone red. It must be the sunset catching the boy's pale skin, that's all.

"Herzlichen Glückwunsch zum Geburtstag," Hanschen says, his voice quiet and almost hesitant. "Your birthday is today, is it not?"

Ernst blinks at the boy, and then stares at the small cake in his hand. He wonders if he made it himself, or if he made up a reason for his mother to bake him a treat, snuck it out so that he could give it to him for his birthday. He can't even remember telling Hanschen his birthday was soon, although perhaps he mentioned it to Georg. That was weeks ago, now. He had remembered, had gone through the trouble to make him something for it.

Ernst is touched.

He carefully puts the cake aside, reaches out and touches Hanschen's cheek, pulls the boy's face back towards him.

"Thank you, Hanschen," he says, ernest and sweet. And maybe he just imagines Hanschen's touches being a little softer that night, a little more like reverence as he lays Ernst down in the grass there.

Ernst eats the cake as he walks home, and it's a little dry and a little strange, but it melts on his tongue and he can't remember ever tasting something so delicious.

They continue on. Ernst watches from a distance as the other boys douse Hanschen with flour for his sixteenth, enjoying the way Hanschen tries to hide his pleased grin, and he hands him a wrapped gift when they later meet. It's not much, a pen his father had given him that he had always thought looked strange in his hands, too elegant for the likes of him. Hanschen's expression is hard to read, but he holds the pen like it's something precious, and kisses Ernst the same, and Ernst thinks that must mean he has done well.

The pen comes out for any important tests, and every time he sees it in Hanschen's elegant hand Ernst feels a little thrill. He likes the idea of something of his staying with Hanschen, even after Hanschen has left him behind. When he surprises the boy with a blank journal near the end of exams, it doesn't matter that it cost him a month of pocket money. Watching Hanschen write in it with his pen is almost erotic, only the excitement runs deeper than anything so physical.

That year, his little cake is partnered with a beautiful bound book of Greek heroes. 'For your library,' reads the note, Hanschen's strong cursive more than making up for the lack of signature. Ernst tucks it under his pillow under the pretense of hiding it from his parents, and he dreams of blonde warriors in golden armor, of holding hands walking down some unfamiliar street.

Change came, as it does. Ernst did not have the marks needed to continue with any further schooling, but his father's friend in a nearby city needed an apprentice, and was willing to take Ernst on as a favor. He looked after account books and learned to sew under the tailor's watchful eye, until even the stern man had no major criticisms of his work. His fingers were often covered in pinpricks and he was slow enough at first that he hardly slept, crawled into the small bed in the attic that was his own and slept without dreams, but his heart ached for Hanschen, who had gone off to learn a lawyer's work without hesitation. Their goodbye was simple, a handshake at the train station and a small rare smile from Hanschen as Ernst did his best not to cry. He tried to throw himself into his apprenticeship and avoided thinking of the boy when at all possible. The book of Greek heroes and the three other books Hanschen had gifted him with still held a place of honor by the head of his bed, but there was no avoiding that.

His birthday came, and Herr Schultz gave him the day off. As much as he yearned for distraction, he couldn't possibly throw the man's kindness back in his face, so he spent the day exploring. Near the end of the day, he accidentally caught the eye of a young man sitting alone outside a cafe, and his cheeks heated. The man gave him an approving look, and guestured to the open chair across from him. He was tall, slim but not without some muscle, and his hair was cropped short. His eyes were dark and intruging, and Ernst almost went to sit with him before he lost his nerve. He offered the man a smile, promised himself that next time, next time he would sit down and say hello, and headed back home instead.

There's a blonde man standing outside the tailor's shop. His shoulders are wide and fill out his jacket in a way that makes Ernst stumble, but it doesn't feel real until Hanschen turns around.

"I... I was told that you were working here, now."

"Apprenticing." He somehow keeps walking, until he is right in front of Hanschen, who looks different and yet the same after almost a year away. "Yes."

Hanschen's bright eyes drink him in, and he wonders if he looks much different, if Hanschen still sees the nervous boy who wanted to be a country pastor. It's sometimes all he can see, when he catches his reflection, but more and more he can see glimpses of the man he might just become.

"It's your birthday," Hanschen says, finally. "I hadn't wanted to miss it." He hands him a gift, looks unsure when Ernst takes it. "I... I shouldn't have dropped by unnanounced, but-"

"It's fine," Ernst says, and looks at the gift to avoid looking at Hanschen, because uncertainty looks so strange on him, he finds himself disarmed by it. "I missed your birthday. I'm sorry."

"No matter."

It is not strange for two childhood friends to hug once they cross paths again, is it? The hug might be longer than is strictly appropriate, and Ernst might clutch the book of fairy tales like a lifeline, but no one is around to comment on it. They walk, hands occasionally brushing, up the stairs to Ernst's little room, and he puts the books with the others while Hanschen watches. They sit on the bed and it is strange at first, to remember the steps to a dance they've only ever done in the safety of their childhood trees, but it all comes back, hands on skin and lips brushing.

After they have finished, Hanschen doesn't immediately dress, which is also unusual. Ernst supposes he doesn't have a home to immediately return to. No mother or father is waiting for them now.

"I live in the city now," Hanschen says, and before he leaves he writes down his address on a spare piece of paper, and the handwriting is so familiar. After he leaves, Ernst stares at the letters and it all rushes in, that this day really happened, that nothing ended on that day at the train station, that it doesn't have to be something left in his childhood to smile at once he's grown.

Herr Schultz does not comment on the tall blonde who starts to come calling, or on how Ernst does not always sleep in his room above the shop. He does pull the boy aside just once, his face less severe than usual.

"I will not mention it," he says, and Ernst tenses, realizing what this is about. "But not everyone will turn a blind eye. Be careful."

Ernst thinks about Herr Schultz, who is his father's age but has no children nor wife, who smiles at all the handsome men who come in to get their suits fitted, and he thanks whoever set his path to lead here.

It has not been thirty years, not quite yet, but they are no longer children now. Hanschen's wife is a high society woman, who smiles wickedly at Ernst and spends much of her time with other beautiful women who's husbands are often away. Ernst still lives above the shop, although now the whole apartment is his, not just the little attic. Herr Schultz left it in his hands, retired to the country. He never writes, but Ernst pens a letter every few months nonetheless, letting the man know how his store is fairing. There are whispers of war on every street corner, but Ernst leaves them for another day, because today is his birthday, and Hanschen's wife gives him a wave as she steps out with a widow friend of hers, and Hanschen is older but no less beautiful in Ernst's eyes, successful and spotless and still somehow Ernst's, in his own way. They talk more than they did, and their touches are softer, like their memories, rubbed round by years of recalling everything about each other.

"Herzlichen Glückwunsch zum Geburtstag," Hanschen whispers into his ear, and Ernst holds him close, because Oberon has his Queen but still holds court with his Puck, even as they age and Spring becomes Summer becomes Autumn. They are no longer young, but they have not changed, not truly. And Hanschen was right, all those years ago. It is beautiful.


End file.
